Portkeys Versus Improbability
by Silimaira
Summary: A girl from our world goes to the Wizarding one. Mary-Sue, much? Well, this time things are gonna be realistic, for better and for worse. Flamers welcome! (currently on hiatus)
1. Chapter 1

_Yes, yes, I know. These types of stories are all Mary-Sues. None of them have any plot. The writing is always terrible. So I'm gonna go ahead and do it anyway, and against all odds, am planning on proving the stereotype wrong._

_My sanity would like to beg you all to tell me when I make mistakes. I know I will, so_ please_ help me by _flaming_ the illogical stuff. Yes, I did ask for it. Yes, I did mean it._

_Harry Potter belongs to You-Know-Who. You know who I mean._

_Please tell me what you think, and I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

Prologue

* * *

"I really don't want to do this, Cecily."

No answer.

"Cecily? You don't need to play mind games. That was a no."

Cecily differed.

"Fine, then." I shoved no less than four pillows, three textbooks, and one library book to the side of my bed. "Hop up, kitty." Purring, Cecily did so. I scratched behind her ears absently and went back to biology.

It was a cosy, if slightly chilly, day at Cecily's house. Her family was lounging about in various states of apathy and her favorite human had actually let Cecily on the bed during the _day_. The cat was happy. I, however, was not.

I had been staring at page 374 of my book for twelve minutes now, trying to memorize all the differences between killer and suppressor T cells. Somehow, I was expected to formulate all the boring details into a two-page essay. Which, I might add, happened to be due in twenty minutes.

"I _really_ don't want to write this, Cec," I complained again. Cecily, being a feline, did not bother to look at me, so I rolled off my bed and walked over to my desk to hunt for a pencil. While I sorted through my menagerie of pens and markers, I continued the rant. "Honestly, Cec, home schooling is hard. I mean, Mom gave me a deadline! She doesn't give _Nickolad_ deadlines." Granted, that might be because my baby brother was seven and currently perfect in every way. "Next time I'll just do the—hang on."

Pencil in hand, I strode to the door. "Hey, Mom?"

Her voice came from the direction of the living room. "Yes, dear?"

"If I make supper, can I get out of my paper?"

She laughed. "Your father's bringing home pizza. Nice try."

Ah, sarcasm, how I love you. I closed my door and heaved a sigh. I would die miserable, cold, and—worst of all—not even lonely. "Don't you hate it when you do things by halves, Cecil?"

Seeing that the cat offered no sympathy, I sat down at my desk and began scribbling out my essay. The worst part was that I had chosen its subject myself.

Fifteen minutes and a throbbing hand later, I stood, stretched, moaned, and collapsed full-out on my bed. Cecily had to scramble out of the way. "Sorry," I mumbled into the blankets and whatever miscellaneous item was squashing my nose. "You'll probably live, though."

Cecily stepped onto my back in retaliation. I thought about shooing her away, or perhaps even expressing disapproval, but I was tired. People do stupid things when they are tired.

I, for example, fell asleep.

* * *

Chapter One

* * *

I awoke soaking wet and spluttering mad. "Nickolas Philip, I will have your _hide _for that!" At least, that was what I meant to say, until something touched my leg and I plunged underwater.

Needless to say, the anger was swiftly replaced by horrified panic. I kicked and spluttered my way up to the surface, only to breathe in a lungful of water. Choking, I remembered my basic rule of swimming and leaned backward. It worked: I was instantly floating on my back, free to cough myself into next week. Well, preferably a Saturday.

By rolling over and paddling, I was able to see that I was in the middle of a large lake. Words can't describe the feeling that _that _gave me. I'm a bad swimmer. It's not that I'll drown in a bucket of water, just that I like to stay within grabbing range of the water's edge. A lake does not constitute "edge." Still, I could back float for a pretty long time, so I shouldn't have felt queasy. That I was shivering made perfect sense—this lake felt like ice water.

Slimy scales brushed my foot and I yelped. Ah, yes, that might explain the queasiness. Evidently my childhood phobia of large, toothy, unseen aquatic creatures was still alive. Forcing down the rising fear, I surveyed the other side of the lake. There was a sprawling castle on a cliff. I blinked. _That seems ominously familiar. . . ._

Regardless, it was the most promising sign of civilization I had yet seen, and the faster I escaped the frigid water, the faster I could think about what had happened. Fun as that would be.

The castle, I decided, was brooding. The many windows stared down at me with a sullen, resigned air. The towers did their best to pierce the few clouds in the sky. I turned away and wrung out my hair. If this was a dream, then it was certainly a realistic one. My muscles were shaking with exhaustion. And I hadn't noticed before, but the season had changed from winter to summer. That was nice—freezing to death is not a good thing in my book. I plopped down on the shore to dry off and warm up.

The lake was actually quite pretty, if you care for scenery. I don't, so I thought, instead. Essay, Cecily, library book in my face, indignant Cecily, large body of water. Could cats create portals when they felt spiteful? I hoped not. Cats are mysterious enough as it is.

"Enjoying the view, are you?" asked a cold, snide voice from directly behind me.

To my eternal credit, I managed not to jump. Instead, my fingernails dug into my palm. "W—what there is of one," I replied. There went the calm and composed image. Though if this was a dream, the person behind me would not notice and I could relax.

Sadly, the man's next words contained a not-so-subtle smirk. "I hope you have a good reason for being here."

I frowned and stood up. "I was drowning. Of course—" Standing face-to-face with me was none other than Professor. Severus. Snape. Of course. "You're kidding."

"I am afraid not," he disapproved, eyebrow raised, "Miss . . ."

"Black," I supplied automatically. "Morgan Black." I looked like a slack-jawed, stunned fool and I knew it. This was _unreal_.

The other eyebrow shot up, too. I mentally smacked myself. _Nice, Morgan, now he's going to think you're related to _those _people. Brilliant. And speaking of, what are you going to tell him?_ "Can you take me to D—Professor Dumbledore?"

Snape stared back at me impassively.

"Please?" When he didn't respond, I sighed. "Since I'm obviously not supposed to be here, I think the least you could do is bring me to the authority figure." That came out wrong. "The person in charge." Unless, of course, Dumbledore was already dead. Now _there_ was a worrisome thought. "Sir."

Evidently a decision was reached, because Snape turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the cliff. Hogwarts. Oh, dear.

The path up the cliff to the castle immediately gained a spot in my mental compilation of dreaded walkways. I hadn't bothered to put on socks that morning, so my feet had absolutely no protection from the multitude of sharp stones littering the acclivous footpath. I bit my lip, stepped gingerly, and stayed silent. Snape was taking me to Dumbledore. He didn't _have_ to be nice about it.

Two very sore feet later, we had entered the school. Snape, I was certain, was trying to lose me. Either that or Hogwarts's corridors were a lot trickier than the books had described. Nor were they full of rushing, black-robed students. That both calmed and worried me. More intriguing were the animated paintings on the wall. Some of them gave me cheery waves. I gulped.

Snape halted abruptly. "Fizzing Norwig," he said, or something very similar. A statue of a gargoyle moved to reveal a staircase.

Snape swept up it. I muttered a thank-you to the gargoyle and followed more slowly, eying the griffin door-knocker as I went through the opened door at the top. It was a very nice office, filled with books, more books, silver smoke, and an empty perch. The Sorting Hat lay on a shelf, appearing very old and tattered indeed. In the back of my mind, I heard Snape talking.

"Headmaster, I found a girl wandering the grounds."

"Oh?"

I shook the stray thoughts out of my head and walked toward the voices. Seated at a desk surrounded by a multitude of blank picture frames was a white-bearded man with half-moon glasses. He smiled kindly at me. "Good afternoon. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts."

I swallowed dryly. "I am Morgan Black, sir."

He nodded. "I imagine you have something you wish to tell me, Miss Black?"

I hesitated. This was it—just where I got cold feet. "You might not believe me."

"True," agreed Dumbledore, "but it can't hurt to find out."

Three minutes later I finished describing exactly _why_ this was not my world, that Hogwarts featured prominently in a popular book series I had read, and how this might have happened. In retrospect, I sounded rather comical and embarrassed.

"What was this student's name?" Dumbledore asked.

I pursed my lips. Snape coughed. "I think you would know already, sir." Not to mention that Snape had disguised a "Potter." _Not to mention_.

The Headmaster beamed. "Ah, I thought so."

Thought what?

Changing the subject, the wizard continued. "My dear Miss Black, this has happened before."

Possibly the most relieving words I'd ever heard. On the other hand, this had happened to others? Boy, did that open my thinking. "So I'm not insane?"

He laughed. "You are a victim of what is called the Ceteri Portal." Portal sounded right. "Every few hundred years an occupant of your world touches an object that transports them into this world."

"Okay. Where's the closest portal? Assuming some of your people disappear, too?"

"I am sorry, my dear. It is likely that a few occupants of this world are affected by the Ceteri Portal, but locating a portkey is quite impossible."

That sounded nice. I tried to ignore the sinking feeling. "Every few hundred years?"

"Yes."

Finding a portal wouldn't help me anyway. "Lucky me." I stared at a scuff mark on the floor.

"Disastrous as this is, I think it will be wise for us to discuss your future before you venture forth into the world."

At another time I would have smiled at the quirkiness of his turn-of-phrase. Not right now. "Yes," I said dully. "Public school."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

* * *

"I think it is obvious," said Professor Dumbledore, "that we shall have to change a few things about your background." As I didn't comment, he continued. "What is your family like?"

Present tense, family. "I have a younger brother, older sister, and both of my parents. Clarice is in college—university. She'd give her weight in gold to be here right now."

The professor smiled encouragingly when I paused, uncertain.

"Nickolad likes the color orange. He does everything Mom tells him to." I paused again. "Mum. This is going to be harder than I thought. Mum's pretty decent. Some days she loses her temper, but overall she does a good job raising and teaching us. Dad's wonderful and humorous. I have grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, too."

"Good, good. You say your mother teaches you?"

I nodded. "It's fun."

"Just as learning should be. Now, had you any plans for your career?"

Honestly, this wizard was juggling tenses around like a pro. "No," I admitted. "What are you planning for me?"

"You shall be given the rest of this summer to work your way up to the highest level you can manage. Then you will join whichever year you are closest to and stay with them until you graduate."

Kind of him, to open up such a saving throw. I did _not _want to have a bunch of eleven-year-olds as classmates. No offense to the first-years intended. "What about my family?"

His face became sympathetic. "I am sure you will understand that we must make up a new one for you?"

No, I would not. At all.

"Your current family will have to be a muggle foster family, I am afraid."

A distant part of my brain clicked. "Very well." I could live with that. Common sense said that I could not have the same parents in an alternate world. If an alternate mother and father existed here, I would be the wrong age. If they didn't exist, I would have a hard time explaining matters to a court of law. Plus, I suspected that my second option involved an orphanage.

"The reason for your not having received a Hogwarts letter will be due to a concealing curse placed on you when you were an infant." I perked up. "Curse" sounded interesting. "I was passing through your village, noticed it, and broke it."

"That sounds fine to me," I said. "Where will I go next summer?"

"We will decide that when the time comes."

Or he didn't want to burden my over-curious self with too much knowledge. Pity, I like knowledge. "Can I tell anyone the truth?"

"I would not suggest it, but I myself will inform the other heads of house of your situation."

Speaking of which, what was Snape's opinion of all this? I risked a curious glance in his direction. He met my gaze impassively. I jumped. "Right. Yes. How long do I have?"

From the corner of my eye, Snape continued to watch me. "Luckily enough," said Dumbledore, "it has been only three days since the students returned to their homes."

I relaxed. That was plenty of time to learn a few years' worth of magic. At the very least, my accent would no longer be so blatantly American. "Where's the library?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Before you go, I have four more things to ask. Firstly, that you not discuss the contents of your book series with anyone. Second, that you try to forget about any future events." He was very clever. "Thirdly, I would like to offer you a Memory Charm."

I was out of my chair so fast that it only squeaked _after _I was standing. "Not on my life!"

"I understand completely, Morgan. However, please be reminded that you _must keep silent _about what you have read."

"Agreed," I promised immediately. "I don't remember much anyway, you know."

"No, I don't," he disagreed mildly. "Would you like a sherbet lemon?"

Yes, thank you, I did, and it was not in the least due to the fact that my stomach started growling like a watchdog. Or maybe it was. Regardless, I took the proffered candy and ate it. Being a creature of logic, I also said the first that came to my mind. "When's supper?"

Dumbledore asked Snape to bring me down to the kitchens in a not-really-a-question sort of way. Snape tipped his head slightly (to the Headmaster) and off we went once more. I got the impression that he did not try to make a habit of acting as a guide dog for measly teenagers like me. My mood lifted a fraction.

"So, Professor," I started, "how many teachers are still at the school?" Four corridors, twelve whispering paintings, and two moving flights of staircases later, he bothered to reply.

"Three."

Having just tripped over a flagstone that appeared to be two inches lower than it really was, I decided not to make conversation. Even if I wanted to be annoying.

Finally, we reached a painting of a bowl of fruit. My memory told me that tapping the apple would transform the picture into a door. Snape glanced at me suspiciously and tickled the pear. Close enough.

The pear bulged outward to form a knob. _I think I could learn to love magic_, I reflected. _Provided I _can _use it, that is. _My chest constricted. _What if I can't use magic? What if I'm normal? What if—_

Snape was long gone through the picture-door. I trotted after him.

The kitchens were stunning. Like the rest of the castle, they were both walled and and paved with stone. Four long tables covered the floor; at first glance they appeared endless. Glinting dishes lined the room and the image was completed by a ginormous fireplace. _Hogwarts must have a lot of students. Duh._

Snape waited until a house-elf scurried over to us. "The girl requires a plate of food." Not that I had a name or anything silly like that.

My awe was instantly replaced by ravenous hunger. The elf nodded to the professor and hurried down one of the rows between the tables. He returned with a plate heaped with potatoes, ham, and beans. I dipped my head at him and accepted it.

Several platefuls later, I thanked the house-elf and turned back to Professor Snape.

He wasn't there. I could only guess that he had left in disgust sometime between the beans and the apple tart.

I might have, too, had my hunger not been so terribly, unnaturally overpowering. Perhaps portals did that to a person? Made them a walking famine? Or maybe my lovely swim in the lake had taken more of a toll than I'd thought. Or the hike up to the castle. Or the castle itself. Or _magic_.

Still, I didn't know my way around this place at _all_. Leaving me to fend for myself was not going to get on my good side. I would just have to find my escort and tell him. Determined, I located the door and headed out of the kitchens.

* * *

Never again will I underestimate wizard portraits. They are, quite simply, invaluable. They are animate, intelligent, realistic, and sentient. None of these are necessarily good.

The first portrait I met seemed likely enough. She was a witch, I thought, and had red hair, a black dress, a pointy black hat, and a disdainful expression.

"Hello," I greeted her cheerfully.

"Who are you?"

I eyed the disapproving lady warily. "Morgan."

"Do not be pert with me, girl."

Suddenly, I wasn't so upset about Snape deserting me. "Morgan Black. Pleasure to meet you."

She stared at the placid expression on my face with distrust. Not, I noted, disgust. "I am Elizabeth Burke."

I waited.

"There hasn't been a Black at Hogwarts for a while."

"Yes," I agreed.

"You look considerably older than eleven."

"I was cursed," I told her. "Do you know where Professor Snape went?"

"Why should I tell you?"

I frowned. "I'm a Black. Aren't you on my side?"

"You are an assuming child. Are you a Slytherin?"

"Well, no, but—" Elizabeth Burke walked out of her painting and did not reappear.

I scowled at the empty frame. "For your information, I haven't been Sorted yet." I made a face and stalked off in the opposite direction. Maybe I could find the professor on my own? Wandering aimlessly was much better than asking infuriating pictures for help. Eventually, I had to settle with asking the pleasant-looking ones.

"Of course, my dear! He turned left around that corner."

"Not today."

"Keep going that way."

". . . Students these days."

They directed me up and onward. On the second floor, none of the portraits had seen him. "He's smoked the hall again," they explained apologetically.

"Who, Snape?"

Something behind me cackled and zoomed over my head, causing me to duck. "What's an ickle student doing here at this time of year?"

"Peeves?" The floating person laughed mockingly. I turned tail and fled for my life and dignity.

When I stopped to catch my breath, he was gone. "Thank goodness."

"Hmm?" said a curious voice. I jumped and located the speaker. "I beg your pardon," he continued. "I am Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington, resident ghost of Gryffindor tower. I don't believe we've met?"

My face was pale. "No." I introduced myself and inquired if he knew where Snape was.

He didn't, but he offered to help me locate him. I accepted, fighting against all my senses. _Ghosts exist here_, I said to myself firmly. _Get over it__._

I'd get over the Phasmophobia soon enough, I figured. The books portrayed Gryffindor's ghost as kind and polite. "I—I have a brother with your name."

"Do you, now?"

"We've called him Nickolad ever since one of my cousins nicknamed him 'Lass'. He's always wished to be a knight."

That triggered it. Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington was quite happy to fill the silence with tales of the glories of knighthood. "These days, however, I feel your brother would be better off becoming a wizard," he finished eventually. I felt an interesting tingling sensation in my stomach.

"True. Where are we?"

"Nearing the Headmaster's office. From what you said, that is where the professor was most likely to be heading."

"That makes sense," I agreed.

"I assume you know the password?" Why would he assume that? Had a ghost followed Snape and me to the office earlier?

"Here we are," the eerily transparent knight said cheerfully, gesturing to the stone gargoyle in front of us.

"Thank you very much, Sir Nicko—" _not him__—_"_las_."

"No trouble at all." He drifted off, literally. I shuddered and looked at the gargoyle.

"Let's see . . . fizzing norwhig."

Absolutely no reaction.

"All right, then." I leaned into its ear and whispered very quickly, "Fizzing Norwig." It worked! I jogged up the stairs and rapped the door-knocker two or three times. No one came to answer it. "For the record, I usually have more patience," I informed the brass griffin, opening the door. "Hello?"

"Good evening," drifted Professor Dumbledore's voice. I followed it into his study, where he and Snape were seated.

"I was left," I explained.

Dumbledore nodded sympathetically. "Professor Snape and I were just discussing arrangements."

_Until you so rudely interrupted_, said Snape's look.

I chose to ignore it. "About me?"

"Yes."

He didn't seem to want to tell me what specifically they'd been talking about, so I didn't push it. "Have you, uh, picked a bedroom for me?" I gave Dumbledore a faint impression of puppy-dog eyes.

He smiled back. "I do believe we have."

"Lovely. I'll go back out and wait, shall I?"

The Headmaster beamed in answer. Sighing, I exited his office. There was no point in eavesdropping on them, even if I had been overcome by curiosity, which I was not. Sort of. Dumbledore was one of those perpetually mild people that completely flip when they feel the need, if I had him pegged correctly. Anyone like that is someone to avoid crossing.

After a sizable wait, Snape wordlessly stepped around my sedentary form. I scrambled to my feet. This following thing was getting old. As were the endless corridors and staircases.

The bedroom, however, managed to pacify me. By some coincidence, it was the same size as my own. _It _is _your own, now_. The odd feeling in my stomach intensified.

"Good night," Snape intoned, closing the door as he left me alone.

I sat on the bed, blinking rapidly. _Quite impossible_. No, no, I would find them again. Dumbledore hadn't meant impossible, just difficult, right?

Right? This was a world of magic. Surely there was some way. Magic was limitless, after all.

I felt a tear slip down my cheek.

Mom, Dad, Clarice, Nickolad. _Quite impossible_. Camaraderie with my cousins. _Gone_.

The tears flowed unchecked and unnoticed. _Gone_.

It didn't matter where I was or who I met. I couldn't have cared less that I was in the wonderful wizarding world of _Harry Potter_. I would never, ever see my family again.

No wonder I had been in shock earlier.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

* * *

Tap. Tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

I groaned, rolled over, and groped for a pillow to stuff over my head. I couldn't find one and the blanket was oddly thin. The noise was coming from the wall connecting Little Brother's and my bedrooms, my ears told me. "Nicko, cut it _out_!"

Tap, tap.

At least there was no light on in the hall. Come to think of it, my room was completely pitch-black. "NICKOLAD!"

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

Urgh! Furious, I rolled off the bed and made for the door, smashing head-first into a wall, instead. I yelped.

_Now_ I remembered. Nickolad was gone and I was at Hogwarts. Alone.

The tears in my eyes reminded me that my forehead was throbbing. I reached up to touch it. There was going to be a lovely bruise in the morning, that was for sure. I leaned against the offending wall to wait until the dizzy feeling subsided.

Tap. Tap.

If that wasn't Nickolad's doing, whose was it? I held my arms in front of me and walked toward the repetitive sound. My fingers hit glass. Specifically, a lead pane window being rained on. Boy, had I been out of it. Not anymore. My family may be gone, but they weren't dead. They'd still be with me no matter where I was. So I could stop feeling miserable and start getting on with life.

My new bedroom had a bed, a desk, a chair, a _fireplace_, a wardrobe, an end table that delighted in stubbing toes, and two doors. One of them led to a bathroom. The other one opened into a corridor.

The corridor smelled like mildew. I wrinkled my nose and felt my way to another door. This one creaked. _Wonderful, now I have a headache_. I stepped furtively into the dimly-lit hallway, wincing. Usually I could sneak about without making a sound. I was definitely going to have to oil the door.

I gritted my teeth as I shut it. Honestly! Was there a spell on that thing? Well, if there was, it had probably triggered an alarm and my best bet was to get as far away as possible. I memorized the entrance to my room and rushed away.

Once my eyes had fully accustomed themselves to the gloomy lighting and the panicked feeling subsided, I slowed to do some decent exploring. I went up some stairs and past hundreds of doors and snoring paintings and tapestries. Then I noticed the twin pricks of light at floor-level.

If there was one thing I knew, it was that yellow eyes equal a cat. And there was only one cat at Hogwarts: Mrs. Norris. I immediately turned tail and fled down the long, darkened corridor. The second time the lightning flashed it illuminated a stairway. I leapt down it, keeping a steadying hand on the railing. My head was ringing with nasty thoughts of being caught. By Filch, no less.

Leaping down stairs two at a time is a bit harder than it sounds. I've found that the only way to do it without falling is to place my feet diagonally, so that my footprints look like a herringbone stitch. I'm pretty good at it. Not tonight. Tonight I met an insubstantial step. When my foot went right through it, three things happened at once. I tipped forward, thunder cracked loudly, and the railing pulled out of my grip. I half rolled, half slid to the bottom of the stairs. Admittedly, it was only a few feet to the bottom.

I stretched experimentally, groaned very piteously, and stood up. I'd have a few (more) bruises, that was all. Still, I had my appearance to keep up. Professional whiners need their practice.

"You shouldn't be out of bed, dear." In front of me was a lady holding a lit wand like a candle.

I jerked, then relaxed at the kind tone. "Sorry," I mumbled contritely.

"I am Professor Sprout, Herbology teacher and Head of Hufflepuff House."

"I'm Morgan, but I guess you know that." I sighed. "I'm not going to know much for a while, am I?" Some way down the hall, a light blurred into existence and bobbed toward us. "What's that?" I asked curiously. Inwardly I was grinning.

Professor Sprout turned around to look. "That would be the caretaker, Argus Filch." As the light and the shape carrying it stumped closer, the professor said, "I'll handle this, Argus."

He grumbled and shuffled off.

"Now, why were you wandering the school, Morgan?"

I stared at the floor. "I couldn't sleep." _Technically_, if one squinted, that was true. Unfortunately, Professor Sprout saw right through it.

"That's not a terribly good excuse." Her voice was mild. "I'll take you back to your room now."

"It's not my room," I wanted to protest. I refrained from doing so. I did try to sleep after that, but I tossed and turned the rest of the night.

* * *

The rain stopped when my room was full of grey light. Finally, I could see what it looked like without the urge to cry messing with my brain. Or rather, giving in to said urge.

The wardrobe was made of a light, honey-colored wood. It had carvings of birds on it. Inside hung a depressingly black robe. _I don't want to wear something so irrepressibly dull_, I groused. On the floor nearby was a pair of leather boots.

The desk was a sizable table, decorated with several stacks of paper, some ink bottles, two quill pens, and a note that read: _Breakfast will be served at eight. I will collect you at half past. -Professor Sprout_.

She hadn't shown up yet, so I walked into the bathroom. It was thoughtfully stocked with necessities as well. There was even a folded nightgown laying on the counter of the sink. A little late for that, I thought. I looked into the mirror to see how I was faring. I looked more solemn than I'd ever seen myself.

I cocked my head and went and put the robe and shoes on. _Oh, come on, I am seriously not liking this_. Nonetheless, the trademarked family glint was back in my eyes. I stuck out my tongue and went to play with the quill and ink.

Exactly at the moment a dull gong sounded (the first out of seven), a house-elf appeared behind me. I whirled. "Breakfast, Miss," he said squeakily.

"Um, thank you." I took the plate of eggs, waffles, and other implements of eating from him. He bowed and disappeared.

I found myself wishing for a cat to jump onto my lap and demand bacon in a horribly insolent way. _Cecily_, I wrote left-handed on the paper. As I'm not left-handed, it looked atrocious. I doodled tabby cats until someone knocked on the door.

"Hello, Professor," I greeted, opening it.

She nodded back. "Good morning."

"Are we going to the greenhouses?"

"We are, yes." Professor Sprout asked me if I was ready to go, which I was, and we sailed off. At least, I did. Flowing robes are fun.

"I hope you realize that tomorrow you'll be expected to find my office on my own?"

I blinked. "Tomorrow?" If I got lost I could ask a picture for directions. "I thought lessons were twice a week."

"Normally they would be. You, however, have a great deal more to do than the typical Hogwarts student, so you will be with your teachers a lot more."

Teachers? Why couldn't I just stick with textbooks? "Ah."

"There is no need to make faces, Morgan."

I wondered what Hufflepuff's main trait was. Slytherin's was cunning, Gryffindor's was bravery and Ravenclaw's was supreme bookishness and knowledge, right? Hufflepuff couldn't be loyalty or whatever notion dear Clarice had scorned.

Professor Sprout seemed more like a very formidable people person to me. My suspicion only grew as she calmly and kindly introduced her subject to me and figured out what I already knew. Nor did she give me homework. I decided I liked her.

* * *

It turns out that a wand is needed to do _everything _here. Magical plants must be handled with magical protection. Brewing potions requires magical swishes. Every class except History of Magic, in fact, calls for a wand. I didn't have one, so the teachers settled for giving lots of homework, instead.

Not that I was complaining. I had a whole new genre of books to read and access to a sizable library. This explains why I was sitting on my bed poring over a pamphlet on wand cores, completely ignoring my recommended reading. I had wanted to borrow a beautiful, gilt volume entitled _Wands and Woods _as well, but I hadn't trusted the glimmer in Snape's eye while he waited by the library's door.

When I had first read the series, I had thought that having a wand sounded really useful. Now that I lived here—well, lets just say that certain fantasies were fading fast. When the ability to do magic hinges on having a thin piece of wood, there are obvious drawbacks. Such as _crunch_, _snap_, and _crack_.

The Hogwarts clock rang two o'clock exactly at the moment I finished the pamphlet. I jumped. I was supposed to be at the door to Dumbledore's office right now, knocking. It turns out I run pretty fast when I'm late.

"Hello, Morgan," said Dumbledore when I finally reached his lair. "Has Hogwarts been treating you well?"

I panted, "Build an elevator."

The Headmaster smiled. "Did you enjoy your lessons?"

Good question. Herbology hadn't been difficult; it had been a friendly discussion about plants, which I knew something about. History of Magic had been dull. Potions . . . Potions had had Snape. He didn't seem to try to be pleasant or especially supportive. "So far."

Dumbledore smiled wider and led us to two chairs surrounded by overflowing bookcases. "Good, good. Now, I have decided to take over your Charms and Transfiguration as much as I can." I'll admit it. I perked up. "Severus has offered to help with Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Sounds lovely," I muttered sarcastically.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothing."

"Professor Snape is an excellent teacher, Morgan."

That hadn't been what I had meant at all. "Do I get a wand?" I questioned, changing the subject.

"I have asked Professor Sprout to take you to Diagon Alley tomorrow. I trust you will find one at Ollivanders."

"What if I don't?"

Dumbledore considered me gravely. "If you were not magical, you would not be here right now." I cocked my head. "I am afraid the giant squid does not like muggles."

_That_ was not comforting. That was not comforting at all. "I thought the squid was nice."

"It had a bad experience in its younger days. How many spells do you know?"

I considered. "Some. I know Accio, Expelliarmus, Expecto Patronum . . . Impedimenta, Lumos, Protego . . . Reducto, Stupefy. And, um, the Unforgivable Curses." Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly. "I only know the words, though." I knew the words to three or four more spells, actually. Guess which ones.

He nodded. "Once you buy your wand, I will teach you to do most of them and several other useful spells."

I frowned. "I just remembered another one."

"Oh?"

I sighed. "The Dark Mark."

"That _is_ unfortunate," Dumbledore agreed. "Do you know what to do if you see a Graphorn?"

"No."

"Disapparate very quickly. What would you do if a Dementor approached you?"

"Hope I could summon a Patronus in time or hide behind you."

"But what if I was not there?"

"I'd be the equivalent of dead."

Professor Dumbledore's style was completely the opposite of Binns', and quite dissimilar to Snape's. Where the ghost had droned on and on, Dumbledore joked and asked questions. Also, he encouraged me to ask them. Snape had implied that questions were a direct result of not having listened the first time. Had said, to clarify.

Potions was going to be a chore, unless I could memorize a half-million ingredients by tomorrow morning. Honestly? I might even be expected to.

The Headmaster and I talked a little about practical spellwork and magical theory before he sent me off to eat supper. I was intrigued. From what I could tell, most spells' words had descended from Latin and had extra vowels somewhere in them. I had been learning Latin since I began high school. This might be a shortcut to the hundreds of spells wizards my age would already know.

Immersed in wishful thinking as I was, I barely noticed when Gryffindor's ghost appeared beside me on the grand staircase. "Good evening, Miss Black," he stated pleasantly.

"Um, hi." An idea came to me. "Are you busy?"

"No, I was just gliding along when I happened to see you looking like you might want some company."

"I was trying to figure out which landing to take. I was told to find supper."

"The one on the left and take entirely left turns," said Sir Nicholas.

I thanked him. "Would you like to come with me?"

"I haven't eaten since the day I died," he replied mournfully. "I'll wait for you here, if you want."

Predictably, I found the kitchens and got lost on the way back. I had to ask the portraits for help. The severe red-headed witch watched me silently as I walked past her. I thought about continuing our earlier conversation for a few seconds, however, the hairs on the back of my neck had a different idea. I managed to find Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington in a decent amount of time.

I begged him for a tour. He was kind enough to acquiesce, and I spent the remaining hours of my free time hiking up and down stairs. It was great.


	4. Chapter 4

_THANK YOU for the reviews, everyone! __They are certainly the best reason to post stories . . . and I know, update speed has gone down. Sorry. This chapter is slightly longer, if that makes you feel better._

_Harry Potter does not belong to me; if you enjoy this chapter, you know what I'd like to say. But seriously, if you have any suggestions or complaints, I'd love to hear them. PM me, if you'd like.  
_

___Typos are thoughtfully provided by my sticky keyboard. Thanksss!  
_

* * *

Chapter Four

* * *

Waking up to the muted clatter of the house-elf putting my tray of breakfast on my desk was not a terrible experience. As he cracked into thin air, I stumbled out of bed and zeroed in on the meal. I was getting a wand today. Today was going to be wonderful! I promptly choked on whatever foul substance had disguised itself as juice. Bleh.

Professor Sprout knocked on the door the moment I finished. I dashed into the bathroom, shut the door, and called, "Come in!" I gave myself a generous forty seconds to brush my teeth and hair.

"Good morning," said Professor Sprout when I came out. "Are you ready to go?"

I stuffed on the loaned shoes and robe. "Yeah."

We walked to Hogsmeade and entered the Three Broomsticks. Normally I would take note of my surroundings, but that habit was outdone by another: apprehension. Just how hard was Flooing, anyway?

A woman who introduced herself as Madame Rosmerta ("Headmaster sent me an owl last night—you poor thing!") held out a jar filled with glittering powder. "Stand in the fireplace and say, 'Diagon Alley,' dear," Professor Sprout instructed, even though she had spent most of the long walk telling me how to use the Floo Network.

I took a pinch, threw it in, and stepped onto the large hearth. _Yikes, flames. Here goes nothing_. "Diagon Alley." I am sure that the last glimpse the two witches saw of me was my greenish face.

Happily for me, that vanished in an instant. I love spinning. Flooing is spinning in a chimney that flashes and tosses you out as soon as you've had enough. I almost smiled when I managed to stumble instead of fall out of the second fireplace.

Professor Sprout emerged a few seconds later. "We're going back by Floo, right?" I asked.

"That's right. I thought we would go to Flourish and Blotts first."

Fine by me. "I have to get textbooks?"

"Your schooling will progress in a different manner, Morgan. The headmaster thought you might benefit from some novels."

That was certainly a ploy to improve moral. Especially since she let me get twelve of them.

By the time I had been fitted for robes, chosen plenty of normal clothes, and picked out a decent pair of shoes, I was starting to wonder where the money was coming from. "Morgan," said Professor Sprout, startling me out of my speculation. "I have to get a few supplies for Professor Snape and myself." I blinked. "Would you mind going to Ollivanders and getting your wand?"

"Not really." Yes. Yes, I would.

"Good. Here are some Galleons—bring back the change—Ollivanders is just down the street."

I raised an eyebrow skeptically. I didn't think she'd try to get rid of me. Perhaps she felt that I ought to do this by myself? Whatever her reasons, Professor Sprout marched off, leaving me close by the doorstep of Ollivanders Wand Shop. I sucked in a breath and went into the place I'd been dreading and dreaming of.

It wasn't oppressive, like I'd envisioned when I'd read the first book. The feel was more of a vast, sleeping power. That matched up, I supposed. The shop's thousands of wands were waiting for their individual wizards to come and buy them. "Sleeping" was probably truer than it should be.

"Good afternoon." I whirled around to find the wandmaker himself, blending in with the shadows.

"Hello," I said. For several seconds we just stared at each other. He seemed to be trying to place me. "My name's Morgan," I supplied. "Morgan Black."

"So I see," Mr. Ollivander mused. There was another pause. I was distinctly aware of the looming stacks of boxes around us. The feeling reminded me of the Potions room in Hogwarts. "Well, then, Miss Black," Ollivander said finally, "let's see."

Having completely forgotten how a wand was chosen, I was surprised when he asked which was my wand arm. "My right?" I said uncertainly. "I've never actually _used _a wand before."

Ollivander looked at me in wordless consternation and produced a measuring tape. How many magical people my age didn't have a wand? I wondered. Then I jumped as I noticed that the measuring tape was working of its own accord. Why was I acting so jittery today?

The tape's owner was busy pulling a box out of one of the towering piles. "That will do," he told the tape, causing it to fall to the floor. "Here, try this. Laurel and dragon heartstring. Eight inches. Surprisingly springy."

Heart in throat, I took the wand and waved it. Nothing. Hogwarts's library had described heartstring as power. Well, I wasn't geared toward power. I knew that.

Mr. Ollivander reclaimed his wand and darted off to pull down several more boxes. "Black walnut. Ten inches. Unicorn hair. Rigid."

To my horror, it started smoking. I hastily gave it back.

The next wands—beech, red-something, both heartstring—did nothing. I relaxed again. "Pine, eleven and a half inches. Unicorn hair. Supple."

It felt more comfortable than the others had. Still, it was a reject and Mr. Ollivander presented a dogwood and phoenix feather. Phoenix sounded more interesting than faithful unicorn, that was for sure. I was delighted to see a spark pop out of the tip.

"No, no," disagreed Ollivander, "a witch your age should get more of a reaction."

"Dogwood sounds nice," I commented somewhat testily as he pushed another wand into my hand. "What sort of reaction?"

He snatched it away. "An affinity for magic," he muttered, half to himself.

I wasn't sure what to think of that. Affinity, I? All the magical people had that.

He dashed to another shelf and selected yet another box. "Red oak, twelve inches. Dragon heartstring. Whippy."

I frowned and rolled the wood between my fingers. "This isn't me."

"Yes, I see that," Ollivander said distractedly. He snapped his fingers. "Of course!"

I scowled harder as he ran somewhere out of sight. "_Accio wand_," I told the lonely wand in the window experimentally. It twitched.

"Here we are." Taking no notice of the strangled noise my throat had created, Ollivander handed me a yellow-brown wand and took the red oak away. "Acacia, eleven-and-three-quarters inches. Phoenix feather. Springy."

The dull feeling of losing the strange not-me red oak vanished as I gripped the acacia wood. "Wave it, please," the wandmaker reminded.

I grinned exuberantly and did so. There was no flash or bang or wealth of sparks. In fact, it did absolutely nothing at all. I laughed. _This_ was my wand, I could feel it.

"That's curious," murmured Ollivander.

My hand instinctively clenched around the smooth wood, happiness slowly being replaced by wariness. "What is? Why didn't my wand react?"

"React, Miss Black?"

"Shoot out sparks or something—like the dogwood did. I thought all wands did that."

"'All wands' are not the same, Miss Black. Acacia rarely reacts at all."

Which meant I got to keep the wand. I was definitely going to read _Wands and Woods_ as soon as I got back to the castle. What sort of wand didn't react? "Sorry," I said, reluctantly handing it over to be replaced in its box. I thanked him and paid for it.

Professor Sprout took a few minutes longer than I had to buy her supplies. "How did it go?" she asked when she had collected me.

I didn't answer; I was too busy smiling at the box I was carrying.

* * *

They really shouldn't have bought me a wand, because it turned me into one of the laziest creatures imaginable. The moment Professor Sprout deposited me in my room, I plopped onto the bed to rescue my new toy from its package. "_Wingardium Leviosa_," I told the empty box. It took me five painstaking minutes to maneuver it into the waste bin.

When my new things arrived at Hogwarts that evening, I unloaded them via magic. "_Accio book_!" I shouted at the basic spellbook (_A Beginner's Guide to Advanced Charms_) sprawled on my desk. It nearly whacked me in the nose, but I didn't care. I was already tearing through the pages for a tidying spell.

The last thing I did before getting up from my bed to get ready for it was set an alarm spell on my pillow. It made for the most curious wake-up call I've ever had, and it was definitely preferable to being jumped on by my little brother. Though for once I wouldn't have minded the little brother.

I started out for the greenhouses twenty minutes early and I was still late. Professor Sprout waved it off and let me help plant some types of magical seeds. When one bit me, she said that meant it liked me. I hoped she was kidding.

Professor Binns took his essay from me and promptly assigned me two more. I spent his entire class sulking and pretending to fall asleep in retaliation.

Unfortunately, I actually _did _manage to fall asleep, and when I woke up Binns was gone and the clock on the wall said I was ten minutes behind schedule. I nearly had a heart attack. My next class was Potions.

* * *

"Ah, Miss Black," said Snape. "I see you have decided to come after all."

I forced my breathing back to normal. "I was—" Something about the way the air thickened convinced me not to continue. Instead, I looked at the lone cauldron sitting in the rows of desks. _Double, double, toil and trouble_. There was a thick book beside it.

"Bring your paper to me and sit down."

He was not pleased when I unfolded said parchment. Belatedly, I remembered that students carried around bookbags, not stuffed completed assignments into their pockets during the morning rush to class. In future, that might be useful. For now, I retreated to the desk obviously meant for me.

Professor Snape was really good at ominous silences, because I finished two chapters before he said another word. "Page four." I sighed and flipped back several sections to a simple recipe of a cure for boils. It didn't look particularly simple, no matter what the textbook said.

I made a face. "So?"

Snape's expression as he slowly got up from his teacher's desk and deliberately approached me was unnerving. "Excuse me?"

I scowled at the textbook. "Sorry. Didn't mean to say anything. Or interrupt you." If Snape had known me, he would have known he had scored a hit. I babble when I'm uncomfortable.

He might have figured it out on his own, as he didn't push the issue. "The ingredients are in the students' cupboard along with the instruments you will require." How kind of him not to make me get the cauldron and the book myself. "Well?"

I scooped up the book and located the students' cupboard quickly enough. It was full of jars labeled "Eel Eyes" and "Silverweed" and not looking much more attractive. I poked around for a while, fascinated, before I heard someone's foot tap impatiently. I dropped six snake fangs on the book, took a mortar and pestle off a shelf, and returned to the desk.

Snape, who had returned to his desk, gave no hints or directions when I glanced up at him questioningly. I busied myself with smashing the fangs until they were pulverized enough to resemble liquid. Then I marched back to the cupboard to grab the other ingredients and a scale.

As Snape was being so _helpful_ and _informative_, it took me several minutes of trial and error to get the right amounts. The only reason I knew they were correct was because I was surreptitiously watching his face. And guessing. And rechecking the directions way more than necessary. And ignoring the prickling sensation on the back of my neck that was caused by someone watching me like a hawk.

When the potion had achieved the proper shade of pink, I snatched up the book and turned to the third chapter, which was about sleeping potions. I tried to lean back, too, to show that I didn't care for this method of teaching, but Snape said, "You've ground the snake fangs too finely."

"It said 'fine powder.'"

"Clearly you wish to write six inches on the terms of the consistencies of crushed substances by tomorrow."

Clearly I wasn't going to be a favored student. "About that, I don't have a ruler. I was wondering if—"

"You may go, Miss Black."

"You don't want me to clean up?" I kicked myself mentally, hard. Twice.

"Now that you mention it . . ." said Snape.

I groaned.

* * *

Dumbledore, on the other hand, was all twinkles and smiles today. He was intrigued (but then he seems to say that word a lot) at my new wand and pleased that I had practiced the Summoning Charm. He proceeded to teach me at least twenty spells, twelve of which were based in Latin.

"Is it easy to make up spells?" I asked, trying to flick my wand exactly so.

"Inventing spells is a dangerous pastime."

"But is it difficult?"

Dumbledore said it could be, and my wand produced the green ball of light it was supposed to. My attention wandered on to more important things. "Can you teach me the red sparks spell?"

He could. To my utter worry, my wand refused to make them. He suggested I practice it more tonight and went back to the original subject of why I should never use the Imperius Curse and how to (theoretically) resist it. Dumbledore's lessons were . . . intriguing. I suspected they were a good bit more advanced and practical than what I'd be getting from anyone else.

Flip-side, he expected me to be more advanced and clever than any of the other teachers had. Ah, well. At least he didn't assign me a paper.

* * *

_Agenda: practice Transfiguration and Charm spells (not enough time); write Snape's, both of Binns', and Professor Sprout's essays; invent spell (fire?); sleep. Obviously I won't be getting much of that_.

As if it wasn't enough that I'd been tossed into a different world, I had to be assigned homework. Homework that was completely boring, depressing, and designed to make my brain rot. What a lie that was. Truthfully, I had borrowed a huge pile of books from the library and they practically wrote the essays themselves.

So it was only long past midnight when I finally dropped the quill pen onto my desk. "They'd want me to go to bed," I told it, "but I don't sleep well anyway." I rummaged through the scattered papers for my wand. "Good. _Accio pointless agenda_!" What was it with objects flying at my face?

I marched over to the fireplace and placed the sheet of paper on its empty hearth. "Ignite," I commanded it, wand raised. "Oh well, let's see if I can do this. Ignis! Ignia! Ignio!" I scowled. "Comburio? Ustulo!" There was a distinct lack of flames. I chewed on my lip and tried to think of more Latin. "Adurio? That sounds better . . . _Aduro_!"

The paper flashed and disappeared in a puff of smoke. I whooped.

For the second try, I crumpled several pages of notes that I'd accidentally spilled ink on. "_Aduro_!" I whispered fiercely. The papers shot up a feathery plume of gold flame and disintegrated. I blinked the rectangular imprints from my eyes.

Predictably, I gathered all the flammable things I could possibly dismiss as "ruined" and burned them. The flame, sadly, did not take more than a half-second to consume everything. Nor were there ashes.

I yawned and charmed my pillow to act as an alarm clock again. _Good night, wand. Sleep well_.

* * *

"Hello, Morgan. You look chipper this morning."

I groaned and rubbed at my eyes. "Isn't there anything to _do_ in this castle? I can only take so many essays." Along with my distinct lack of a love for mornings, that was.

Professor Sprout chuckled. "You have a lot of work to catch up with, dear."

"Hrmph. Speaking of work, might you by any chance have a bag I could borrow? I tried to make one this morning, but I couldn't manage to conjure or transfigure one." From the amused expression on Professor Sprout's face, I guessed that next time I attempted a spell labeled as "moderately difficult" I should succeed at it _before_ I brought it up.

"I'll get one from my office before you go."

"Thanks," I said gratefully. I wasn't quite so relieved when I found out that the bag in question was pink.

Why? I mean, pink, fluffy earmuffs and now . . . oh, never mind. I piled my things into it and jogged to Professor Binns' classroom. I also managed to lose my way twice, trip down a staircase, and mistake a wall for an invisible door. So far, so good.

To my disappointment, the ghost had not started droning without me. No, I apologize. He was a ghost and he did drone, and those were not reasons to insult anyone. Not unless he insulted me first. "You understand you are late, Miss Banks?"

I snorted before I could catch myself. "Sorry, um, I mean, yes."

Honestly, my last name shouldn't be that uncommon to a history teacher.

"Next time I will be forced to deduct points from your house," he said.

I blinked. _They can—wait a second_. "Yes, sir." I sat down at one of the desks, grinning like a demented loon. I wasn't in a house. They had nothing to use against me. I was a free bird, spirit, whatever. Yes, yes, yes!

By the time I made it to Snape's dungeon, the grin had faded into a general feeling of triumph. Which quickly faded into irritation when he took his assigned essay and didn't comment on it, or even on the fact that it was close to twice the required length. I broke the silence. "Apparently there's nothing wrong with crushing snake fangs too finely."

"Ten—" started Snape. He didn't finish.

I prayed he wouldn't look up from the paper and notice my silent, convulsive laughter.

"What do you find so amusing, Black?" Rats. I gestured vaguely at the pink bag Professor Sprout had lent to me, but Snape didn't buy it. "I assure you that I do not have to take away points to make you miserable."

"That's good," I agreed in a credibly serious tone.

And he made good his threat, too. It really shouldn't be legal for someone to cross-examine someone else about millions of ingredients' properties when the latter person is trying to concentrate on measuring out jumping beans. At least, that's what they did: jump. Regardless of their actual name, dear professor. And the lesson, as Potions class seemed wont to do, went doooownhill from there.

That night, I had a semi-serious discussion with myself while I was reading one of my new novels and putting off the inevitable essays.

_What year is it?_

_Don't ask _me_. All _I_ know is that the Weasleys' shop isn't in Diagon Alley yet, and that Ollivander's still is. If that's relevant._

_I could find the Trophy Room and look at the House Cup awards._

_No, pointless. I don't remember enough about the order to pinpoint what year's which. Although Snape mentioned Potter—_

_Harry—_

_Exactly, which means I could count off the years since Slytherin's winning streak. I wonder which house I'd be in?_

_Gryffindor, I imagine. I'm stupid and reckless enough. And horribly loyal._

_Not witty. Never sarcastic, either. Slytherin?_

_Nah, I don't cheat enough at all. Maybe I should ask Dumbledore to have me Sorted._

_Oh, no, you don't! Then the whole plot-driving prejudice thing would start. Better to wait as long as possible._

_I should find the Trophy Room tomorrow. And find the Room of Requirement._

_Or I could just finish this book._

_That, too._


	5. Chapter 5

_So, um, hello again. Unless I get pestered enough, or get enough reviews, I will not be updating for a while. If this story is not up to par, I see no reason to keep putting chapters on FFN. Yes, this is a bit upsetting. Yes, I would rather get flames—read: truthful concrit—than an overall lack of response. (I'm not insulting those of you who have reviewed at all, by the way. I'm thanking you even more.)_

_So, so, so. Future updates will depend on if you want to see them or not._

_JKR's work does not belong to me, clearly. Fanfic authors are only in it for the reviews. ;)_

* * *

Chapter Five

* * *

"Morgan? Morgan, it's time to get up. Morgan Ignacia!"

It was hard not to throw a pillow at the speaker. It really was. "Mommmm . . ."

"Five minutes and then you'd better be downstairs."

"Mooouugh." I cracked open an eye in time to see my esteemed mother exit the bedroom and my tabby cat steal in. Cats really don't appreciate it when their humans have forgotten to feed them supper. I got up and got dressed and offered Cecily a scoop of cat food. She didn't want it. "I don't blame you," I told her blearily, not happy with having to wake up. "It looks like boiled cardboard."

"Morning, Morgue."

Huh? I whirled around. "I thought you went to your boyfriend's for the holidays," I accused.

My tall, snobbish sister raised her eyebrows. "Boyfriend? Who have _you_ been talking to? I don't even _have_ any male friends."

"Riiiight."

Clarice stalked off as Dad appeared in the doorway. "Hey, kiddo, time for breakfast."

I frowned. "You're not at work?"

"Why would I be?"

I shrugged.

* * *

"This is Gary, my fiancé," Clarice chirped, motioning to the guy whose hand was intertwined with hers.

At my place at the table, I scowled. "Seriously? No one else thinks this is odd?"

"Sirius," giggled Clarice. No change there. Still odd.

I shrugged and directed the famous disapproving-and-unimpressed-younger-sister glare at Gary, who shifted and decided not to address me. "Hi boys," he said. I winced. "Clar's told me all about you."

This had to be a dream, because I didn't have two brothers.

"You must be Nickolad. And you must be . . ."

I opened my eyes and literally fell off the bed. _Ah, lovely. Now where's that foul wand_?

"_Lumos_."

Bed, check. Wardrobe, check. Leaded windows, check. No false sense of security, check. Yep, Hogwarts sweet Hogwarts.

Reassured, I clutched the wand tighter and laid down again.

* * *

"Ganny?"

"Hmm." I put down the book and raised an eyebrow at my wide-eyed younger brother. "What's wrong?"

I was totally bewildered when he burst into tears and jumped onto my lap for a hug. "You vanished five days ago. We thought—" he sobbed piteously— "a Death Eater got you." Melodramatic, much?

I smiled at him and patted his dark hair affectionately. "I told you I'm invincible, remember?"

As he slowly recovered from his outburst, Nickolad stuck his tongue out at me. "Dad and Cousin Tonks have been looking everywhere for you. You're in _huge_ trouble." That was his personal way of forgiving me for whatever horrors I'd committed. It really should be funny that my siblings threaten each other and me as a gesture of affection. Strangers don't usually catch on, which is disheartening.

Nickolad hopped back onto the floor. "Come on, let's tell everyone you're safe!" Slightly less optimistic, I followed his bouncing feet down the stairs.

"Clarice, Clarice, Ganny's back!"

"Told you she was fine," Clarice said from the safe confines of her favorite armchair. Her voice betrayed her, though. She was relieved.

"I thought you were at college," I said in confusion.

"I've only got a Muggle _boyfriend_, Morgue. Have you been living in a hole?"

I had the oddest feeling that she'd already told me that. "Sorry, Sis."

"Oh, go on and tell them all you're back."

Nickolad skipped on, but I waited until Clarice crossed her eyes at me in annoyance. "They were worried," she enunciated. "Shoo."

"To hear is to obey," I said in a marvelously simpering tone.

"Oh, shut up."

We grinned at each other for a minute—her relieved, me wondering at this "missing" fuss—until a nagging feeling reminded me that Nickolad was waiting. "See you later," I muttered.

For some reason, the living room was down a good bit more steps than I recalled. Not to mention the crowd of people in it. Mom was there, and Dad, and someone with black hair that looked about my age. Several adults were standing in the corner, talking in hushed monotones, but all that stopped when they saw me.

"Morgan?" Mom looked as if she was seeing a ghost.

"Hi, Mom," I replied, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

I knew I recognized most of the extra people in the room. From their expressions, they knew who I was as well. That didn't explain my uncanny inability to place them, though. A sea of familiar, unfamiliar faces. How typical of a dream.

Instantly, I was alert and back to my normal self. "Hi, Mum; hi, Dad. How long have I been gone for?"

"Years," Dad answered.

The dull sensation in my stomach was in no way a dream. I shuddered. Then I had a better idea. "Good thing I'm back, then. How's life been treating you?"

They didn't buy the cheerful expression. It made sense, I supposed, that creations of my subconscious wouldn't fall for my tricks. "You can't be alive," Mom said. Always the skeptic.

"Of course not," I agreed, wishing that I could have had a nice normal dream about coming home instead of a bad one where everyone knew it was impossible. "Who are all these people?"

I should have guessed. Honestly, I must have hit my head not to.

"Who do you think? Those are your cousins Tonks and Remus, that's Regulus, that's Sirius, she's—"

"All right," I interrupted, free in the knowledge that she wasn't really my mom and that none of this was real. "Who's he?" I pointed at the kid with the black hair.

I figured I knew already, especially when he rolled his eyes. "Oh, that's Tom," my mother said casually.

The next thing I knew, I was undeniably awake and on the floor again. Laughing.

Why couldn't I have instinctively adopted _Harry_ into my family? How did _Voldemort_ get in? Why was I imagining my family as wizards? Who in their right mind would think that Riddle-the-relative was funny? Besides me, no one.

Always assuming I was still in my right mind. Or that I had one.

In that light, it wasn't too surprising when I woke up a third time to see that the sky outside was a pale shade of blue. Or that breakfast was already waiting.

Lovely.

* * *

Reluctant as I was to face my past, I was even less happy about rolling out of bed to face school. Though I didn't mind facing spells. Or plants. Or theory. In fact, I shouldn't mind Hogwarts at all. There wasn't even _math_.

I wasn't quite so optimistic when one of the plants bit me and then Professor Sprout paralyzed me while she ran to her office to look up the counterspell.

"Sorry, dear, I was certain that five Freezing Charms would hold it." _Oh, boy. That's reassuring_.

I gave the plant a look that didn't need a translation. "What kind of monster _is_ this thing?"

"Fanged Fireflower is the main ingredient of the Fire-proof Potion. The man who sold it to me said this one was a bit finicky."

I laughed so hard I didn't notice her waving her wand over my arm. She had told me earlier that she'd charmed one of the greenhouse tables to the floor when she was my age. Considering that she'd described it as a stray shot, I decided the salesman (and possibly the professor herself) needed a better dictionary.

"Oh, hush. Concentrate on the lesson."

"The lesson bit me!"

Professor Sprout smiled. "As you can see, Fireflowers are most difficult when being transplanted. Read L through O in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ and plan the best way to weed a Devil's Snare tonight. Ask Professor Snape for some Burning Bitterroot Balm when you see him next. You're dismissed."

"Thanks," I said, surprised. "See you tomorrow." _If I drop dead, I know which teacher to blame__._ But then, if she was really worried, she wouldn't have let me leave. _Okay, maybe it's just a nice apology_. That was better.

With half an hour to spare, I might even—I started running. The trophy room wasn't going to find itself.

But I bet it could find itself with a lot less directions from the portraits. Seriously, for a small, out-of-the-way room barely mentioned in the books, the place was pretty impressive. If a dragon broke into the school, it would be ecstatic. With just the Quidditch plaques.

I swallowed and found the most recent one. 1994. Gryffindor. That narrowed it down, but . . .

_Triwizard Cup. Awarded to Harry Potter, 1995__._

Which made this the year of Umbridge versus Dumbledore's Army.

_I am going to_ _die._

* * *

After sitting through the abysmal history lesson, where I managed to take notes, I headed down to the dungeons for more soup-making. Professor Snape wasn't there. It was the right place—the middle desk two rows from the front had a cauldron and an open textbook on it. Puzzled, I took my seat and read a few chapters. The door did not slam open; no one said "Miss Black" in a patronizing undertone. I glanced up again, noting the large book on the teacher's desk, the opened cupboard in the corner, and the half-finished directions on the chalkboard. _Oh._

_Ouch_.

Well, it seemed Herbology would not be the only class to be cut short today. I pulled a scrap of paper and a pen (wizard stops only supply fountain pens and quills) out of my bag. "Professor Snape," I wrote, "I didn't think you'd be back soon, so I'm borrowing the book you left me. I assumed—"

"Agh!" _My arm!_

I dropped the pen and rolled my left sleeve up, hissing. The small bite mark on my forearm had deepened to a reddish-purple hue. More frightening was the fact that it was bubbling.

I tore my eyes away from the wound and forced my feet to the opened cupboard. Ingredients. Praying that the balm would not be in Snape's office, I threw open the next door. Oh, joy. Rows of bottles and vials.

Thankfully, Burning Bitterroot Balm was near the front. I popped out the cork with my teeth and poured it all over my arm. The bubbling was _not_ going to spread, not if I could help it.

The pain stopped within seconds. I wiped my eyes and siphoned up the puddle of goop on the floor. Thank goodness for housecleaning spells!

"—that you wouldn't want me to make anything while you were not here, too. Um, Professor Sprout told me to get some Burning Bitterroot Balm from you. Sorry I used it all up." I placed the note, yesterday's essay, and the empty glass bottle on Snape's book. _Ancient Dark Curses_. Nice read. No wonder the man glowered all the time.

I smiled and glanced at the small clock on the wall without cupboards. Eleven thirty-four. _Good, I have two hours to explore_.

"Explore" wasn't exactly the right word, I admit. Sir Nicholas had already shown me the way from the grand staircase to the tapestry of Barnabas the Balmy. I knew _exactly_ where I was going. Hopefully.

As luck would have it, I managed to duck into an empty classroom before Peeves saw me, and I found the tapestry without much more trouble. Then I started to pace, thinking, _I need a watch, I need entertainment, I need a chair that's not wooden_ . . .

Midway through my soliloquy, a battered, stained oaken door appeared on the wall. It had a dented brass handle as well, exactly the same as the one I had turned countless times per day back at home. I grabbed the knob and opened the door to my "bedroom."

Creepily enough, my bedroom stared back at me. I blinked.

On my desk was a pile of wristwatches.

An over-stuffed chair crouched behind the bed.

The floor was covered with hundreds of things: books, puzzles, mousetraps, logic games, broken Snitches, socks, . . . even a wizard chess set with the words "strategy edition 101" emblazoned on the side.

These obvious pluses affected me much more than the downsides: my bedspread was green, not white, that sort of thing. For a moment, it was deceptively easy to pretend that this actually was my room, my room if this had actually been my world. I sighed and waded right into the mess like a blind fool, not noticing that some of the mousetraps were still set. Heh.

"OW!"

Heh.

I picked a plain, black watch (the only other running one was fuchsia) and collapsed onto the armchair to nurse my bruised toes. I played a game of chess against the board, enduring the condescension of the opposing pieces with amusement, the motherly air of my queen not-so-much. I read a book about a stereotypical magical princess and the wizard she married. I taught myself how to juggle Snitches. In short, I had a wonderful afternoon doing absolutely nothing, and it was _exactly_ what I had been missing. Besides my family, of course.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello again! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for all of the lovely reviews! Warm and fuzzy is a perfect attractant for plot bunnies. :)_

_This is a special update, by the way. You know how most people put up Christmas and birthday chapters? Well, not me. Happy night before wisdom teeth removal, Silimaira. Congrats. Reviews make me write, so if you feel sorry for me or want me to do something productive with my temporary spare time, feel free to review! And yeah, update speed is currently stuck in a rut._

_I do not own Harry Potter. I have enough siblings as it is, thank you._

* * *

Chapter Six

* * *

I walked in the door with a suspiciously cheery expression on my face. I say suspiciously because that was what Snape seemed to think as he picked up his quill pen. "G'morning!"

No answer. I made my way to my desk and plopped down on the stool, poking at a long and silvery string of . . . something. For once, the potion ingredients were already laid out on my desk. Strange. "The Headmaster said you were out on business yesterday?"

Snape jotted something down, giving no indication of hearing. I huffed and read the instructions for the day's potion, Ever-boiling Tonic.

If brewed correctly, Ever-boiling Tonic would stay bubbling for a few decades. Instead of staying one color, the tonic would simmer through all the colors of the rainbow. It was notoriously easy to get the color wrong, though. And lastly, it had been the last potion covered in the book I'd borrowed. Which had been a third year textbook. Which meant that I was going up in the world.

I mixed and stirred, keeping the temperature exactly so, adding the silver unicorn hair at the perfect moment. The potions master didn't look up, probably because the potion couldn't blow up or light on fire or anything fun like that. In fact, it was reputed to be one hundred percent child-safe.

_Oh, no. No. I want this to turn out nice. I want to stay on his good side. There's nothing wrong with doing well at potions_. Pshht. Like Snape's ever shown me a grade. _Or smiled. _Excellent. Now, what were those ingredients again?

Rabbit's foot, unicorn tail hair, false nettles, beetle eyes, peacock feather . . . scratch that, peahen. If I waited five minutes longer, added three ounces of eyes, "accidentally" used the silver spoon to stir it counter-clockwise, and then added the feather, something interesting would happen.

Blame the book of theory I borrowed from the Room of Requirement. I'd spent the night inhaling it.

I checked my watch and dumped a few handfuls of false nettles into the cauldron. Snape turned a page. Funny, my watch had a second hand and the tiny clock on the wall did not. Hilarious.

_Five minutes. . . ._

_Beetle eyes. . . ._

_Stir . . . might be best to let the boiling die down a bit. Yeah, that looks good._

I glanced toward Snape one last, reckless time, only to see his head shoot up and his eyes narrow in possible alarm and definite warning. "Don't you d—" Whoops, too late. I dropped the feather.

A mass of green and blue bubbles exploded out of the cauldron's mouth, knocking me to the ground. I clapped my hands over my eyes and climbed back to my feet. The ruined potion was barely warm, but I didn't fancy getting magical soap bubbles in my eyes. I rubbed the liquid off my face and surveyed the aftermath.

It was beautiful. A sizable patch of the floor was covered by a bubbling, blue puddle. Several desks had bright purple splotches draining off their sides. My cauldron was on its side, slowly oozing rivulets of yellow foam.

As I stood there enjoying all the pretty chaos, Snape said, very clearly, "If you hurry, you might still have time to eat lunch." He conjured a mop and a bucket, then returned to his book. I looked from the puddle to the mop.

"Two feathers or two stirs?" I asked the air. The air was silent.

Snape turned back to me, full of that dangerous expression. I smiled innocently. "If it had been dangerous, you would have Vanished it."

He pointed at the mop, eyes narrowing.

Hrumph. It was a valid question! If my theory was correct, both options would double the potion's volume. That might have been the reason he'd placed the ingredients out for me with clear instructions and a set of scales.

Unless I was missing something.

It took me an hour to finish scrubbing the ruined potion off the floor and desks. Because Snape had reglued himself to his reading, I used my wand to discreetly clean up the toughest spots. "Hey, Professor?"

"You may go, Miss Black."

I shook my head, not that he was watching. "Does silver react more with dried materials or fresh? The textbook implied—"

"Fresh."

"If I added bat wings instead of beetle eyes, wouldn't the colors go neon?"

Snape stared at me impassively. "Asking intelligent questions will not make me tell you where I was last night."

I scowled. "Either Deatheater or Order or possibly personal business. Would the colors go neon?"

"No," said Snape. Rats. I packed my things back into the hideously pink bag and escaped before he could assign me an essay.

The rest of my lunch break was spent eating and working on a Herbology diagram. I was late to the next lesson, but Dumbledore wasn't there when I barged in. "Not _again_!" The two armchairs he'd conjured from the Gryffindor common room stared back at me huffily. "Sorry," I told them.

What? This was Hogwarts. I'd seen one of the suits of armor marching around the other day. I was being careful.

I sat down in one of the chairs to wait. The Headmaster was much more likely than Snape was to send me a note. Hopefully. Probably. The door creaked open. "Good afternoon, Morgan."

"Hi, Professor!"

"I apologize for being late. I had to clear up a few things at the Ministry."

"Oh," I said, "that." What I meant was that the government was a good reason for tardiness.

Dumbledore said, "Fortunately, they did not kill the children."

"Yeah," I agreed shakily. "So, um, you said you'd show me the Patronus Charm?"

"Quite right, my dear." The somber expression on his face faded away. The sick feeling in my stomach, however, did not. When Dumbledore encouraged me to try the fifth-year level spell, I couldn't manage a spark. Although my wand seemed to have a natural aversion to creating sparks.

My mind kept wandering, too. Every dangerous spell Dumbledore mentioned brought Deatheaters into my head. When he said Snape's name (as part of a list of skilled duelists), I jumped. "Professor," I asked quietly, "who was attacked last night?"

"Norman and Romania Wilcox," he replied gravely.

"Do their . . . children go to Hogwarts?"

"I imagine they will move to France to stay with their aunt."

"That's awful," I said. _At least they_ have _an aunt_, whispered a voice in the back of my head. Shut up, I told it. _And there's a they_. Well, there was a me right here. "But I'm glad they're alive."

"As am I, my girl." There were no clever, twinkling jokes for the rest of the lesson. I didn't even poke fun at the Ministry's proposed ban on feather-light charms (it, ah, fell through). The topic drifted into Dementors, spluttered through forbidden spells (the hydrogen bomb, for example), and finally died a cheerful, curse-ridden death. At least the mood lightened when I turned a needle into a pincushion.

I think I have a _really _weird wand. It wouldn't make the red sparks spell, burned things in a gigantic plume of smoke, and then starts growing a sense of humor. _Acacia rarely reacts_, eh? Only when I didn't want it to.

When Dumbledore dismissed me, I decided to take the long way to my room. Ha. Not doing that again, not on purpose. Even though I went down enough staircases to feed an army of termites, the first thing I recognized was the door to the Room of Requirement.

Which meant that I had passed it three times without noticing, that I needed something, and that Hogwarts might actually be sentient. "All right, castle, you win." I opened the door.

There was no semi-familiar bedroom. The floor was a black-and-tan marble pattern that stretched an impossibly long distance to meet up with pale green walls. It would have been a perfect place to wander in a melancholy, selfish daze. Except.

To the left of the door was a towering bookcase stocked with titles like _1001 Pranks for Rainy Days_ and _Taming Your Broom_. My options were simple.

"Could I have a chair, please? And could you tone down the size a notch?"

Room-dearest complied, adding a fireplace for good measure. "It's summer," I complained. "Besides, why does that log look like a chair leg?" Cannibal.

The fireplace vanished into the wine-colored walls, leaving me to my books. And my thoughts.

When my watch read eight o'clock, I put _1001 Pranks_ back on the shelf and stretched. "I should go eat supper. I'll see you—ooh, hey! Wait, do you have broomsticks?"

Yeah, come on, room, smotha' me!

"Augh! One broom, uno, eins—will do. Um. Thanks."

Broom and bookbag in hand, I marched unchallenged to my bedroom, the kitchens, and my bedroom again. The painting of Elizabeth Burke watched me sourly as I went by. I stuck out my tongue at it.

"Impertinent," she muttered.

"Paintings should be seen and not heard," I mimicked loftily.

By the time I finished scratching out my homework, the light had faded from my window. Professor Sprout had assigned me research on fluxweed. "It's a neat little plant," she had said. "The leaves are silver until it reaches maturity. Fluxweed can only be harvested on full moons, so I'd better not catch you outside tonight." Then she had smiled and continued her Freezing Charm target practice while I weeded.

Well. Anyway.

I snatched the broomstick off my bed and slithered out the door. With luck, I would remember which tapestry held the direct door to the Quidditch Pitch. Sir Nicholas had spewed out a list of hidden passageways during his tour, some useful, some useless, and some that he shouldn't have mentioned at all, like the flagstone entrance to the third greenhouse. Insubstantiality seemed to be the world's best spying system.

The Quidditch Pitch was large, green, and grand. The moon had risen just enough to lend the stands its shadows. Awfully _long_ shadows, which matched the scarily tall bleachers. The grass was springy underfoot and looked like my mother's dream lawn.

I cast a diffused light charm with my wand and stuck it into the ground. Dumb, I know. But self-cleaning and polishing spells were surprisingly numerous, so I wasn't bothered.

I put the broomstick down and waited for my eyes to adjust. How had flying lessons gone in the books? Oh, right. "Up."

To my relief, the broom twitched. "Up," I said again, this time a bit less uncertain, and it rose smoothly to meet my hand. _Awesome_. You know how excitement can turn you into a bubbling, quivering mess? I love excitement. Except when I'm not sure if it's mortal fear in disguise.

I swung a leg over the broom, grabbed the handle, and kicked off before nerves collided with common sense.

There was no second of rapture where my instincts connected with a type of cleaning ware and I turned into a bird. I simply noted that I was a good five feet up, if I leaned to the left I would either roll or fall, and that—say, how did one land? I leaned forward cautiously and almost created a human scarecrow.

After a few more minutes of overcorrecting and white knuckles, I managed a slow lap around the field. An impressive display of skill, no doubt, but I wasn't going for a joy-ride my first time on a broom. I'm not _that _stupid.

Quick note: bunny hops are not recommended.

The books never really explained how a person can sit comfortably on a stick that is slimmer than his wrist. It's possible because of a modified Cushioning Charm, and the feeling is roughly equivalent to sitting on a bicycle. Ideally, you tuck in your legs and hold on with your hands. Steering is done by your body; speed is mainly determined by grip. Like most things, the rest is all trial and error and instinct.

Once I figured out the basic rules, flying became kind of fun. Kind of. Somewhat. I was _flying_, how could I not be thrilled?

I was weightless (swooping like an osprey until my shoes snagged the grass).

I was soaring (rushing into a whirling, dizzying spin that left me breathless and grinning).

I was ten feet off the ground and it was long past midnight. I wanted to take a bath and try the Patronus Charm again.

Wanted, past tense. How could I resist flying?

* * *

**_Update 1/15/13- Yes, I am writing the next chapter. No, it will not be up soon, but I can guarantee that reviews help me write faster. Especially reviews that comment on plot._**


End file.
